by Dakota Black
The car shifted from sideways to moving forward, jumping a curb and-
Bam!
Pitched forward, the airbag went off as the car crunched around him, the sound of metal smashing exacerbated. Moaning, he pushed hard against the bag, trying his best to punch it down, still able to see the lights, now slowing down, moving closer. Closer.
Fuck!
Zach watched in slow motion as the window was opened and he could see the flash of metal in a bolt of lightning.
Pop! Pop!
Chapter 2
Cassandra Jeffries stood at the window, watching the storm raging outside. She usually adored the smell of rain, the way the lightning lit up the sky, but tonight she had an uneasy feeling, as if the Devil himself were coming to drag unsuspecting souls straight to Hell. Shivering, she held her arms and leaned her head against the cool glass. Everything was so out of sorts, her life, her job and career, even her thoughts regarding the future.
She studied the flashes of lightning, the formations that were almost evil in design. They reminded her of stories of the past, events heralded by her grandmother, tales told of the ancient days, times when Indians ruled the land. Now, the majority of tribes were gone, erased, yet their spirits remained, hovering over the earth, unsettled and unforgiving. She longed for a moment shared with the impressive woman. Her death had left her with an aching deep inside.
You are a very special woman, Cassandra, one who can capture the spirit and essence of those around you. Use your gift wisely, for opening the door to the world of spirits and saints could mean devastation to those around you.
The warning she’d heeded for most of her life, but she’d refused to accept the gift, one given to her by the great Gods above. She was Indian, but she was also her mother, a beautiful blonde Caucasian, a quiet and unassuming woman and the love of her father’s life. Once the Chief of a great tribe, he’d ruled with an iron but fair fist, until the fall of their particular tribe. He’d succumbed to the ways of Americans, longing for money and power. He was dishonored before he died. Details of his last years she’d been sheltered from, her mother taking her away from everyone she knew as family. When her mother passed, she’d lost her best friend.
She shuddered as she thought about the past. No matter the traditions, she’d never lived her life as anything but an all-American girl. Now, she was all alone, determined to carve out a life her father initially detested. What would you think now, Papa? Would you be proud that your little girl is living out her dreams, forging her way in modern society? She closed her eyes, willing away the ugliness.
Coming to Dallas, leaving everyone she adored to embark on a new career had meant everything to her. Working for what she now considered a chauvinistic firm left her angry much of the time. Almost a year later, she was struggling to make a difference. But she would. Why was she bothering to lament? Fear? Boredom? She was worth much more than Myers and Logan Associates allowed her to be. She could see the reflection of her kitchen table in the glass, her work station as of late. Bringing work home was almost a requirement.
Groaning, she walked around the table, eyeing the various drawings and her beloved laptop. She was a damn good architect. Too bad her bosses had reduced her down to working on smaller projects, single buildings and even a systematic layout for a park. This wasn’t what she’d signed on for. She had aspirations beyond the normal drudgery.
She grabbed a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator, pouring a hefty glass full. She deserved a break, time for herself. Chuckling at the thought, she tried to concentrate on the jazz music playing. She’d switched stations, hoping to God the melodic music would calm her anger. Hell no. She remained pissed off and ready to pack up. No. She refused to allow the men of her company to win.
Who was she kidding? Even some of the women were black widows, waiting to draw her into their spider webs. She remembered the words of her mother – do the very best you can do at all times. Ignore the assholes. That’s what she was doing.
Boom!
She jumped, a moan escaping her mouth as the thunder rumbled, rolling as if the storm was right outside her door. Being frightened of the thunderstorm was ridiculous. After taking several sips of wine, she forced herself to sit down in front of the computer but couldn’t help making faces at the boring design. Colonial. For Dallas? Cowboy Country? Ugh was all she could think. But, this is what the client was paying for.
Taking another sip, she eased down her glass and proceeded to get to work, making final details on her sketch. She sat back, making faces at the wretched design.
Click!
Cassandra’s ears perked up. She lived in a very tiny house with extremely loud neighbors on either side, but the noise seemed closer. As if inside her home. Just the air conditioning unit clicking on. Had to be. She fingered the keyboard and took another sip. The finishing touches would be done by the morning. Then her client could sign off and—
Bap. Click!
This time, hair stood up on the back of her neck and a series of goose bumps rolled down and over her naked arms. She darted her head from side to side as a moment of clarity rushed into the back of her mind. A vision was coming. She hated them, loathed the concept in fact. Jerking to her feet, she almost knocked over the wine. Catching the glass with a shaking hand, she dragged it with her as she walked into the living room, turning on the light next to the couch.
There was no one waiting with a knife, no monster creeping around the shadows.
But she knew. Someone had broken through the spiritual barrier.
Every step tentative, she inched closer to the hallway leading to her office and bedroom. The very darkened hallway. She flipped on the light and for a few seconds, there was nothing but darkness. When the light came on, slowly as if being turned from low to bright, she could swear there was a bluish hue. A dull ache formed in between her eyes, a pointed slice of pain that forced her to wince.
Eeerr… Blip!
The disturbing sound was coming from her bedroom. She was certain of it. Swallowing back fear, she crept along the wall, breathing in and out. The door was open but the area inside very dark.
Boom!
The thunder rattled the house and she slammed her back against the wall. “Shit!” Terror swept through every cell in her body. She was usually able to control her fears, learning through years of training to push away the spirits, but tonight, with the raging storm, she knew a door had been opened, allowing them to cross over. The majority weren’t ghosts of the undead, or so she believed, but creations of mental images brought on by several anxiety attacks of those she was able to connect with.
Her gift was a damning hindrance.
Whoosh!
The sound was like a rush of wind in her house, sweeping up every aspect of her life, perhaps dragging her belongings into some form of Purgatory. Willing her nerves to calm, she inched closer until she stood directly outside the bedroom door.
Suddenly, the wind outside seemed to quiet yet there was a distinct hum, a buzzing noise that reverberated in her ears. Please stop. Please.
She knew better than to bother asking. Wishing. Commanding. Electricity seemed to be all around her, creating spikes of current rushing, swirling. While she couldn’t see anything, she knew what she was going to face. She’d known since she was a small child, unable to control her own emotions.
The moment she crossed the threshold, a cold wave of energy pulsed through her, dragging her further inside. She managed to set the glass down on her dresser then moved to the center of the room. If she concentrated, allowing her mind to process the images, the sounds, she could rid herself of them sooner versus being tangled in the ugliness for hours on end.
Closing her eyes, she eased her hands by her sides, yet her fists remained clenched. Breathe in. Breathe out. Control. Take control. The mantra usually worked, allowing her to see but walk away from the spirit. Tonight? Nothing seemed to thwart the oncoming onslaught.
She remained skittish as she could see colors
swirling in her eyes, rolling in vivid hues, dancing back and forth.
Crack…
The sound was subtle but right behind her. She refused to turn around. Holding her breath, she continued concentrating until an image flashed into the front of her mind. A man. He was in a room, the area dimly lit with glowing sconces. She held up her hand and it was as if the vision was controlling her arm, showing her what he was experiencing.
He walked further into the expansive area and gazed up at a woman. The beautiful red-headed girl was held up by her wrists, her feet dangling against the cold tile floor, her body swinging back and forth, the chains above her head creaking.
Cassandra sucked in her breath and waited, not moving, barely breathing, knowing the next round of images would drag her into the moment.
Crack! Pop!
The man wielded a whip of sorts. He pulled back, allowing Cassandra to see the implement, the long leather tails that seemed to be dripping with blood. Shaking, she widened her stance until she felt comfortable. The girl’s mouth was open in a perfect ‘O’, her eyelids fluttering open and closed. She was beautiful, an innocent among monsters, experiencing ecstasy.
Slam! Smack!
The man turned his wrist, slapping the girl across her naked breasts. Beads of perspiration trickled down the sides of the girl’s face as Cassandra watched, horror gripping her heart yet tingling with the concept.
Crack! Pop! Crack!
He struck the redhead again then dropped his head, his expression one of near panic.
Unable to see his face, she waited, a voyeur watching a slide show of raw anguish, perhaps pure ecstasy. When he moved around behind the girl, he slid his fingers down her spine to the crack of her ass. The redhead remained silent, yet her eyes were open wide, experiencing the moment of domination with utter glee.
Cassandra realized she was panting, her arm reaching out. In the next few seconds as the man positioned himself in back of the girl, stretching out his arm and preparing to strike her back and ass, she envisioned herself tied, naked and waiting. The moment was so cathartic that she moaned, breaking the rhythm.
Crack! Slap!
Cassandra arched her back, ripples of pain coursing down from her spine to her legs. She was tingling, her blood pumping. This was… This is what you want, what you need. This is what you crave. Sucking in her breath, she willed away the damning thoughts.
Crack! Pop!
“Ah!” Had she actually screamed?
For a split second, that moment of direct connection, the man looked up, his face twisting. Then he stumbled backward, his concentration broken.
She panted, trying to take a step forward but was locked in the vision. This wasn’t over.
Boom!
The thunder rolled all around her and flashes of light swirled, pulsating. She was cold, so damn cold as he moved around the girl, unfastening the metal bindings holding her in place. Cassandra’s mouth dropped open as the girl crumpled, clenching onto the man. Inhaling, she gathered the scent of him, his exotic and musky cologne, the testosterone flowing through his body. She knew he was turned on but there was something else.
There was no way this could happen. None. She was in the room, pain slicing through her tense muscles. The man struggled, his eyes shifting back and forth, searching.
He was having a vision, much like her own. The electric connection continued as he let go of the girl, commanding her down onto all fours. Cassandra could see his expression, his unbridled desire, a burning hunger unlike anything she’d ever experienced but this wasn’t for the pretty redhead.
His desire was for her.
As if in a trance, she moved out of her bedroom and toward the small room she used as a studio. The moment she turned on the light, she blinked and stared at the blank canvas. Drawn to the paint, she studied the box of colorful hues before selecting her favorite brush. Panting, she began to swipe, creating lines and swirls of black then mixing with a powerful red.
She was on a mission, a need to create, to finish the picture of the man. His face remained burning in her mind, an ache penetrating every muscle, every cell. She longed for the man, the stranger who remained furrowed, burying into the deepest portions of her mind. Frenzied, she changed colors again, selecting a bright orange as she continued, mixing and melding, moving the brush in fluid strokes.
His eyes were so dark, blackened pools leading to a ravaged soul. She had to depict him perfectly. The connection remained burning hot. The scent of him filled her nostrils, the fragrance all masculine. She could almost reach out and touch him, his carved muscles and copper colored skin.
Her arm and fingers worked, flying as she continued, layer after layer of colors as her vision remained strong. She could hear his deep baritone, the husky sound as he called her name, beckoning her to come to him, to be with him.
To succumb to him.
And she wanted nothing more. Beads of sweat trickled down her cheeks, the slender strings dripping into the paint, mixing with the intense, rich colors. Every stroke was bold, the strong lines and curves affected by the vision, his powerful and seductive image. She blinked and refused to stop, even though exhaustion settled in. This was magnificent.
She breathed in and out, trying to focus and add one last color, the last few strokes. When she was finished, she dropped the brush and stumbled backwards as the vision slowly began to leave. She was cold, chills racing down her spine to the backs of her legs.
But she remained wet, her pussy clenching. She eased her hand inside her blouse, pinching and twisting her nipple. The pain was wonderful, allowing her to feel alive, so free. This man, this glorious man was the one.
He would release her from her demons.
“If you think of anything else, give us a call. We’ll do what we can to find the perpetrators, but given the little information you provided, we have a tough case ahead of us.”
Zach glanced over at the officer, nodding before opening the passenger door. His thoughts remained muddled, unsure of everything he’d experienced. “I understand, Officer Gentry.” As he climbed out of the police cruiser, he studied the morning sky. The storm had given way to a splash of colors, tangerines and fuchsias accenting the cresting sun. He shivered, a leery feeling sliding into the pit of his stomach.
“And if you receive any threats, anything at all, call our office.” Officer Gentry gave him one last look, his expression a mixture of discord and amusement.
As if the man didn’t believe a word.
He heard the officer’s voice but knew there was no law enforcement that could help him. The knowledge was planted in his mind. “I will.” He waited until the officer drove away before heading toward his front door. Another slice of raw fear pummeled into his veins.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
What the hell? Blinking in order to focus, he looked down again, hissing as he stood his ground.
The package was small, wrapped in brown and leaning against the door.
Hesitating, he inched closer, looking over his shoulder as if he’d be able to detect anyone watching. Waiting. His house was located on a stretch of road with only a few houses located within miles. The quarter mile driveway and nondescript entrance prevented any casual visitors, especially given he’d removed his mailbox. He’d learned from early in his career to secure a PO box. Surprises, he loathed.
Hunkering down, he studied the front. There was no return address and only his name written in what appeared to be a red sharpie, the color resembling blood. While he should feel fear, instead, he was incensed, angry at whoever had breached his private oasis. Very gingerly he lifted the box. Lightweight, there was no outward sign of a store’s return address, either online or local. He suspected the contents didn’t include a bomb, but he was cautious as he rose to his feet.
Unlocking his door, he pressed in the security codes then stood listening for any tell-tale signs that he’d had a visitor in the middle of the night. As he switched on the hallway and living room lights, there was
no indication of an intruder. Granted, the bastard would have been careful, knowing he’d been in a wreck; however, his gut instinct told him no one had been inside. The security system, one which he’d paid an exorbitant amount of money for, was working properly.
Exhaustion clouded his eyes as he headed into the kitchen, placing the box on the middle of the island. He waited for a full five minutes before approaching it, untying the butcher’s string and peeling away the tape.
The box itself was nothing special, merely a white cardboard box. There were no notes, no special instructions. Taking a deep breath, he finally lifted the lid. The sticky note sized piece of paper held a single word, and he was certain the block lettering was written in blood.
Remember…
A cold shiver slithered down his spine as his mind reeled. He peeled away the brightly colored tissue paper then slapped his hand over his mouth as he stepped away. “Goddamn it.” Hissing, he shook away the disgust and inched closer, leaning down.
The index finger had been severed with what appeared to be a serrated knife, the jagged cuts surrounding the tendons and tissue smashed, the edges of the pieces of skin in different lengths. While the blood encasing the finger was dried, drops had fallen to the tissue on the bottom. The cut was fresh. The finger had once belonged to a male.
He was being warned.
“Let’s get this locked up today. This is a good decision.”
Zach heard Camden Dane’s voice before he opened the door. The man held excitement in the tone, as if the decision was the best one Rush Enterprises had made in the recent months. He was five minutes late to a meeting with Camden, as well as Mitchell Rush, the past CEO and a continued member of the Board of Directors. Yeah, he had a damn valid excuse. The night spent at the ER, three hours of interrogation by the local police department had left him in a surly ass mood. No, he hadn’t been able to see any license plate or the faces of the attackers, just the basic make of the vehicle. No, he had no concept of why he’d been chased, hunted like a damn dog. And no, he couldn’t provide a list of would-be perpetrators.